Last day guys! Day seven; Undercover! This is also, I believe, the first one I actually wrote. So we've come around full circle. XD Hope you enjoy!
Warnings for: Doctor/Patient themes, and nudity.
He can't quite believe his eyes when the door opens.
"Alright, Mr. Peterson, what seems to be the problem today?" He can only stare, which is probably why the doctor looks up from his chart with a curious expression, and then stares right back. "Oh."
He swallows, watching as the doctor's mouth curls in a sharp smile before the smaller man steps back and slowly, deliberately, flicks the bolt on the door. The doctor steps forward, holding the clipboard against his chest and a pen in the other hand. The black hair is pulled back into a small ponytail at the back of his skull, black bangs falling to either side of delicate glasses. Those are new.
"What are you doing here?" he hisses, looking around the room for any hint of a camera. There isn't one, thankfully, but he still pushes up from the end of the examination chair and gets to his feet. "Tim—"
"Please sit back down, Mr. Peterson," the doctor — Tim — says, stepping forward to press the pen against his chest and push him back with the faint pressure of it.
He sits back down, staring, and that pen slips up and presses to the bottom of his chin, keeping his jaw closed. Those blue eyes are very familiar, he knows them better than most, but right now they're totally different. Locked door, clipboard, lab coat, glasses . Alright, there's a why about this, somewhere, but he's not really sure he needs to know when Tim is looking at him like that .
"Mr. Peterson, I'm Dr. Draper. Now, I see on your chart that you've come in for a basic physical check-up. Is there any particular reason you felt you needed one, or is this just an annual?"
The pen doesn't come away from his jaw, so he has to tilt his head back to give himself room to speak, bracing both hands on the paper cover of the table. "I— I need medical records for a new job I'm working," he half-lies. "They need an assurance I'm healthy."
"Mmhmm." Tim steps back, and he swallows hard when that pen slides down his throat, hooking at the collar of his shirt. "Mr. Peterson, if you could come over here and let me weigh and measure you. You don't seem to have any prior records with us, so we're going to have to fill out your basic information before I can finish your physical."
"Yeah," he manages, "sure."
He slips to his feet, following the guide of that pen across the room to the weight in the corner. He starts to step onto it, before the sharp tap to the front of his throat with the plastic cap of the pen. He freezes, turning his gaze down towards the cool smirk aimed up at him.
"I'm going to need you to strip out of all of this to get an accurate weight," Tim murmurs, with a pointed tap to his shoulder, and the shirt covering it. "Quickly, if you don't mind."
He nods, moving to grab his shirt at the back of his neck and pull it over his head. Tim steps back, giving him room as he tosses the shirt into the chair next to it, and then kneels down to get his boots undone. Those get toed off to the side, and then he gets out of his socks, jeans, and finally boxers, shivering just a bit as he kicks the whole pile over to the corner, beneath that chair.
"Well, you certainly seem healthy," Tim comments, voice calm with just a hint of amused. He flushes, closing his eyes for a second because this is way, way hotter than it should be. "On the scale, please."
He steps up onto it, standing still and straight and not turning to look down at Tim or track exactly where those blue eyes are. It's a few seconds of silence, punctuated only by the tap of what has to be the pen against the clipboard, before the scale beeps. He steps back off of it, and then Tim flicks that pen towards the wall, where there's a height measurement printed on the wall itself.
"Shoulders and heels against the wall," Tim orders, and he does it. The plaster's cool against his skin, but that's probably a good thing because the way Tim studies him over the top of those glasses is making him feel a lot hotter than normal. "Two-hundred and two pounds, and an even six feet," Tim murmurs. "Good numbers for your build, Mr. Peterson. Now, if you could make yourself comfortable in the examination chair for me, please. Just a few quick tests before we begin."
He has to take a deep breath, and let it out, before he can actually make himself cross the room and pull himself up onto the reclining chair. It's cool underneath him, and a little small for his height, but he manages to get himself spread out more or less right. Tim pulls over the rolling chair from the nearby corner, taking a seat in it and setting the clipboard aside on an otherwise empty metal tray standing near where his head is. Warm skin touches his, and Tim hands carefully take his right wrist, turning it in their grip.
"These are some… specific bruises, Mr. Peterson. Where did you get them?"
It takes him a second to realize that Tim is not talking about the bruises scattered over him that are still healing — most in faded shades of yellow — but the darker, fresher ones circling both his wrists. The ones that he got two nights ago from being held down by Tim, that are just starting to turn interesting colors and complain about the fact that he pulled so hard at the cuffs that were used.
"My boyfriend," he says, keeping up the half-lies that the rest of this has been. "He plays rough sometimes."
Tim peers at him over the top of those glasses, holding his gaze and then deliberately tapping the inside of his wrist three times with those thin fingers. "This is consensual?"
He shivers a little bit, unable to help it, and then his chest warms as he realizes exactly what Tim is doing. "Yeah," he murmurs, "it is." He twists his wrist a bit so he can tap Tim's hand with his own fingers, the same deliberate pattern of three.
It's his nonverbal code, for when they play. Two times for red, like a tap-out of a fight, and three for green and the go ahead. Now, whether Tim is using that because he can't risk the slight possibility of his cover being blown, or just because this is turning out way hotter than expected and Tim doesn't want to drop out of role to ask, it's hard to say. Either way, he's committed and definitely down for whatever this is going to be.
"Good." Tim takes his wrist more firmly, fingers pressing to the underside of it. "Now, I'm going to get a measure of your pulse, take your temperature, and then we can get started with the actual examination. Just breathe nice and normally for me… That's perfect."
Tim pulls away, rolling back across the short space to reach onto the small sink area and counter, retrieving what looks like a thermometer as well as a disposable sheath for it. That's confirmed when Tim comes back, pulling the sheath out of its wrapper, slipping it on the thermometer, and then raising it towards his mouth.
"Under the tongue," Tim orders. He obeys, fighting not to bite down or try and suck on the thermometer — or anything else stupid — because this is not a scenario he ever considered hot before and he's never wanted to suck on a thermometer. Though maybe that's just a side effect of Tim sticking things in his mouth.
With his other hand, Tim reaches over and clicks the pen's tip out, writing things he can't quite see down onto the paper attached to the clipboard. Which goes on until the thermometer beeps its findings at them, and he almost shudders at the feeling of it sliding out of his mouth along his bottom lip. Yeah, it has to be a side effect of Tim, because no one else has ever made him enjoy things in his mouth quite so much. Or at all, really. Definitely not enough to make him want them back, anyway.
"All normal," Tim comments, as the thermometer gets set aside. "Excellent. Now, if you could just stay still for me, Mr. Peterson, so I can proceed with the more physical aspects of the exam. If you have any reactions, please do be vocal so I can get a full picture of your body's responses."
He doesn't trust himself with anything more than a nod, especially not when Tim rolls back to retrieve a pair of disposable latex gloves. Which Tim definitely doesn't need to snap as he puts on, but the sound goes straight to his cock and he grits his teeth not to make any kind of painfully embarrassing noise. He's sure that that's going to happen anyway, no need to give in so soon. Judging by the little smirk on Tim's lips, his reaction is pretty transparent.
Tim approaches slowly, standing from the office chair and crossing the few feet to reach him again, looking down at him.
"Alright then, let's get started."